


Shattered Pieces of the Same Crystal

by saltandlimes



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Catalyst compliant, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Past Galen Erso/Orson Krennic, The only thing more dramatic than Orson's obsession with Galen is his cape, past Galen Erso/Lyra Erso, well of a sort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-14 02:11:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9152968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltandlimes/pseuds/saltandlimes
Summary: For Galen Erso, the only thing that would be worse that Orson Krennic's frequent visits to Eadu would be if he never came back. And Orson? Well, Orson has never been able to stay away from Galen for long.They're in each other's blood, after all.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I am slightly embarrassed at how quickly I've fallen for this ship. Yay galennic?

Orson stalks back to the visiting officers quarters on Eadu, belly tight. There’s a hot coil deep inside him, throbbing and desperate. He can feel the phantom brush of Galen’s fingers across his shoulder, the tingling streaks they’d left in their wake as Galen grabbed his arm to show him a new set of calculations. 

He lets the door slide shut behind him and slumps against it, slamming a fist backward to rattle the thin metal plating. Pain sparks through his hand, traveling up Orson's arm to mingle with the lingering feel of Galen’s touch. That’s pain too, after all. He brings his throbbing hand up to release the clasps holding his cape to his shoulders, lets it fall in a crumpled heap on the floor. It pools there, white, glaring at him in its clean perfection. A too-sharp contrast to the distorted shape of his trousers, to the thickening press of his cock inside them. Orson sighs. 

This is not how things were supposed to be. 

He makes his way over to the armchair in one corner of the tiny sitting room and slumps down, knees spread wide. His gloves come off easily and find their place on the table next to him. The click of his cigarette case is loud in the emptiness of the room. It’s cool enough that the heat of the sparker is palpable, warming his fingers as he takes a drag on the cig to light it. 

The smoke is clove-sweet as he holds it in his mouth, then warm as he breathes it in. Orson tips his head back to release it. He thinks of Galen’s face, so many years ago, when they’d sat on the grass near the Futures program dorms, passing a cig back and forth, making it last. The way Galen’s lips had wrapped around it, eyes full of wonder, bright in the moonlight. It had been so easy then. It was so simple to pluck the cig away, to drink smoke out of Galen’s mouth and then press their lips together. Galen had pressed back, licking at the edge of Orson’s mouth, then pulling away to breathe out, both their eyes watering at the harshness of the smoke. 

It was so easy back then. 

Orson brings a hand down to rest lightly on the front of his trousers as he takes another drag at the cig. So simple back then, and he’d thought it would always be that way. Him and Galen, together. He cups his cock, thinking of the way Galen had lit up while they were discussing research earlier today. That’s how it’s supposed to be. Destiny. 

They used to spend hours dreaming. Galen lying on his back, staring up at the sky. Orson propped up next to him, listening as Galen spun out one incredible idea after another. He’d watch Galen’s face, watch the way his mouth thinned when he was thinking. Orson would stare at Galen’s narrowed eyes. Back then, he used to marvel at how Galen looked just the same out on the lawn, imagining wonders of new science, and flat on his back in Orson’s bed, moaning as he spilled over Orson’s fingers. As though Orson's touch was as good as the mysteries of the universe.

Orson takes a deep breath, fills his lungs with smoke. It’s thick, and the tabac buzzes through his veins, lighting them up, making his cock twitch. He wonders if Galen still looks like that, if Galen still arches up, desperate and needy, shocked that anyone would ever want to touch him. Or did Lyra train that out of him, ruin that stunning innocence just as she ruined so much else about Galen? Orson likes to think not. To think that even if Galen grew used to her touch during their marriage, to the feel of her body underneath him, with Orson it would be different. 

With Orson, it would be new and real and just as incredible as it has always been.

Orson’s had his share of other people, of course. Pretty boys who’d shuddered under his hands, knelt beneath the shelter of his cape to suck desperately at his dick, to drink his come with desperate mouths. But none of them have been Galen. None have fit him like a long lost piece of his heart he’s only just found in the meeting of needy lips. 

He flicks open his trousers, can’t help himself anymore. The first brush of his fingers of his cock feel just like the press of Galen’s hand on his shoulder, pleasure too dear. Orson gasps, smoke puffing out of his mouth. He sets the cig down. Then he’s wrapping a hand around his cock, just holding himself for a moment. 

It would be different if Galen were here. 

Galen should be here. They are meant for this, meant to face the universe together, to conquer it together. Lyra did not take that away, could not. It is like the heart of a kyber crystal. It can be cracked, warped, used, but it does not break. It is destiny. 

He strokes slowly at his dick, imagining what Galen would look like if he were here. He’d pace across the sitting room, as always, too much energy bottled up. Orson would lounge here, palming himself, watching Galen mull over some new mystery. Eventually, he’d call Galen’s name. 

Orson brushes a finger over the head of his cock, rubs at the slit as he imagines Galen turning to him. He’s the only person Galen has ever done that for. The only person Galen will look to in the middle of a calculation. The only person Galen will leave his math and his dreams for. The only person that matters enough. 

Galen would come to him, kneel down in front of him, face tilted upward, earnest. And Orson would wrap a hand through that long hair, pull Galen down to his cock. He wrenches his hand away from his own dick, licks at his palm to get it wet. It’s not as good as the imaginary press of Galen’s tongue, but it’ll do.

He’s stroking faster now, the slickness of his spit mixing with precome. He twists his fist on the upstroke, feels pleasure curling in the back of his spine. It’s been living there since he left Galen in the lab, and now, imagining Galen kneeling at his feet, imagining Galen’s mouth on him, it threatens to spill over. 

He’d tug lightly at Galen’s hair, the way Galen used to love. The way that made Galen moan, all those long years when the universe worked as it was meant to, those years when Galen knew the truth: they are two halves of one perfect whole. And Orson would lean forward a little to whisper to him.

 _Did you miss this?_ He’d ask. Galen would make a muffled noise of agreement, mouth too full of Orson’s cock to reply. 

_You’ve always needed this, haven’t you? Always needed me. We’re made for one another, Galen. We’re meant to be like this. We have to be like this. I’m in your blood, your bones, your very core. You know it. You and me, we’ll take the whole fucking universe together. Show them all how great we can be together. You know that, right? You need that. You need me just as much as I need you._

It’d be true, too. It _is_ true. They’re made for one another. They’re two shattered pieces of the same crystal, aching to be put back together, and the sooner Galen remembers that, the better it will be. The sooner this fantasy will turn to reality. 

Orson would make it so good for him. He’d come, maybe in Galen’s mouth, but probably over his face, over those pretty, pretty eyelashes and across those high cheekbones. Then he’d dip down, lick the come away from Galen’s face and suck the taste of himself from Galen’s mouth. And Galen would pull away to smile at him. He'd breathe Orson’s name in wonder, in need. 

Alone, Orson comes with a gasp, Galen’s imagined voice echoing in his ears. 

***

Galen hasn’t done this in years. But here he is, fingers buried deep in his ass, face pressed into the pillow as he tugs at his cock half-desperately. He tries to clear his mind, to fall down to the mindless darkness of the slap of skin in skin, the buzz of arousal echoing through his bones. It's impossible. He’d felt Orson shudder as he’d wrapped his hand around Orson’s shoulder. At first he’d thought it was disgust, anger at the idea that Galen would even dream of touching him now. 

He’d realized it was something else all too quickly. Something older and more powerful than any fleeting annoyance born of Galen’s reluctance to serve an Empire Orson only half believes in. Galen’s stomach is tight with nausea, even as his cock throbs in his fist. He can’t believe himself. But he hasn’t been able to think of anything else since Orson stalked off to his quarters. He can’t get that tremble out of his mind. Can’t get the feel of Orson’s body out of his fingers, the feel of Orson's need. 

He thinks it’s the first time he’s touched Orson like that in years. 

He’d been so careful for so long. Just a simple handshake, a clap on the shoulder. Orson is a drug, and Galen’s always been an addict. With Lyra, he could forget about the aching, roiling need for a while. Could stop himself from reaching out to Orson, from tugging Orson into his lap the moment they were alone together, from dropping to his knees to bury his face in Orson’s stomach. He could stop himself from touching. 

Lyra’s gone. 

And it makes him sick, bile rising in his throat as he remembers how. As he thinks of Orson ordering the trooper to shoot. 

He doesn’t take his hand away from his dick. If he thinks too hard about that he’ll break. He’ll tear himself in two, part of him shattering with grief while that part he’s always tried to deny crawls back to Orson in needy longing. He’s not made for this. 

He was not born for such things, for the pain of losing Lyra and Jyn to mingle with the pain of not having Orson - of not letting himself have Orson. It is too much for one person to bear. He has to give part of it up for now, or else collapse, ruined, destroyed by the ache inside himself. 

He twists his fingers in his ass, presses almost brutally at his prostate. Lyra hadn’t liked doing this, had always shied away from putting her fingers in him. As if that was part of him that belonged to someone else. He pushes the image of her face away. He cannot…

And of course, the only other face he sees is Orson’s. It always has been. The only fingers he imagines teasing at his rim are Orson’s. The only hand tugging at his cock - Orson’s. Galen groans against the pillow. He wonders what Orson would feel like now, draped over him. Has Orson’s body softened over time? What has happened to his narrow hips, to the ladder-rungs of his ribs? 

Is his cock still just as Galen remembers it?

It would fit perfectly inside him. Galen is sure of it. They’ve always fit together as if they were made for one another. There has alway been electricity that arcs between their skin. It would be the same now, he’s sure of it. The press of his fingers against Orson’s shoulder told him all he needed to know. 

His ass tightens around his own fingers, and Galen moans, low and deep. It would feel so good, would be so sweet to have Orson in him again. As right as it has always felt. The impossible joining of pieces that should not fit, but meld together in perfect accord. He comes with a yell, spilling over his fingers onto the bedclothes, back arching and ass twitching. 

It’s not the first time he’s come to thoughts of Orson since he married Lyra. Not the first time since Lyra died. 

It’s that thought that sends him racing to the fresher, dirty with come, to kneel in front of the toilet, emptying out everything in his stomach. It’s the thought that he can put Lyra out of his mind now, can choose not to think of her or Jyn, but he’s never been able to do that with Orson. The taste of shame is vomit-sharp in his mouth. He’s disgusting. 

Orson is in his blood, in his very being.

**Author's Note:**

> This basically got written because I wanted to mess around with Galen and Orson's characterizations before writing something longer with them. Thanks for bearing with me!
> 
> Also thanks to [thecopperriver](http://thecopperriver.tumblr.com) and [ivnwrites](http://ivnwrites.tumblr.com) for the betas! You guys are my heroes!
> 
> Come hang and talk about bad space dads on tumblz [@saltandlimes](http://saltandlimes.tumblr.com)!


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